


Sunglasses

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Briefly referenced masturbation, Crowley's Sunglasses (Good Omens), It's heavily implied there's gonna be some though, M/M, No On-Page Sex, Other, Sunglasses Kink, these tags are a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Over the centuries, Aziraphale has always managed to keep his lust for Crowley in check. But in the 20th century, sunglasses explode in popularity, and Aziraphale discovers an unfortunate fascination with them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	Sunglasses

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random little thought that came to mind. Enjoy!

For millennia, Aziraphale had prided himself on his self-control. He had indulged in a great many earthly delights, but never the infernal delight that was Crowley, for whom he had felt more than a slight stirring of lust for many, many centuries. He had behaved himself, and he had only really had to worry about it when he was actually _near_ Crowley. He had done fairly well at keeping his thoughts away from the demon, otherwise - at least when he was outside of his own home. Inside his own home, he rather thought he was entitled to his fantasies, even if he did feel a little guilty about abusing the mental image of his very best friend. Surely Crowley would be horrified if he knew Aziraphale’s thoughts.

Everything changed in the first half of the 20th century, when glasses like Crowley’s - sunglasses - suddenly became all the rage in the general population. Aziraphale had very rarely encountered anyone with tinted eyeglasses - aside from Crowley, of course - before then, but suddenly they were everywhere. That wouldn’t have been a problem, of course - it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t _recognise_ Crowley if everyone started wearing dark glasses - except that it turned out Aziraphale associated them _very strongly_ with Crowley. Certain parts of him took a distinct interest whenever he caught sight of a pair of dark lenses, and for a while he found himself hiding away in his shop rather than risking embarrassment out in the world.

It was a shock, the first time someone ventured into his shop without taking their glasses off; his hands had shaken as he had rung up their purchase - a book which, once the panic and embarrassment had worn off, he would immediately regret selling. He’d closed up early and retreated to his bed, blood pounding in his veins as if to say _Crowley Crowley Crowley_ until he’d had to give in to temptation and take himself in hand. Eventually, he always gave into the temptation of Crowley.

As time went by and sunglasses only became more popular, he learned to keep himself under control again, to ignore that quickening of his pulse as he caught sight of a pair of sunglasses on a slender gentleman or a tall lady, and he began to see Crowley himself more often. Then, all of a sudden, the Antichrist was on Earth, and the world was ending, and then it didn’t, and they found themselves walking back towards the bookshop after dinner at the Ritz.

“Where did you leave my car?” Crowley asked with a forced sort of casualness, and Aziraphale scoffed.

“You’d never let me drive her. I took a cab.”

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered, as if he was ashamed, and Aziraphale stopped to look at him properly.

It was a mistake; Crowley was standing in the late afternoon sunshine and it made him seem to glow, his hair a vibrant red, the lenses of his sunglasses glinting, the tips of his fingers tucked into the ludicrously tiny pockets of his jeans. He looked _perfect,_ he looked utterly _delectable,_ and Aziraphale didn’t want to be in control of his desires any more. He didn’t think he could, even if he tried. He had fallen in love with Crowley, years ago, had known it since the moment the demon had stood amongst the ruins of a church and handed him back his books. He had _wanted_ Crowley for longer still, perhaps since the moment he’d teased him on the wall of Eden. He had tried to hold back, he had tried to keep them safe, he had tried to go slowly. But now they _were_ safe, and he didn’t want to go slowly any more.

“Crowley,” he blurted out, “come back to the shop with me.”

“Sure, angel,” Crowley agreed easily, and Aziraphale knew he didn’t understand. He couldn’t, not yet.

They got back to the shop, and Aziraphale locked the door behind them before turning to Crowley.

“Crowley, I- I want to go fast.”

The demon stared at him for a moment from behind those - those _blasted infuriating sunglasses_ \- and Aziraphale huffed, feeling suddenly defensive.

“I didn’t _ask_ to develop a… a _kink_ for sunglasses, you know.” Crowley’s face fell, and Aziraphale realised his mistake immediately. “That’s not what- I’m not, not because-”

“No, I understand. The glasses… they do it for you, that’s fine-”

“It’s because of you. It’s always been- because _you_ wear them.”

“Right. Of course.” But even with his sunglasses on, Crowley’s face betrayed him; he didn’t believe what he was hearing, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him.

“I’d want you just as much with them off.”

“It’s fine, I’ll keep them on- I- just. You want this? Good, I want it too. It doesn’t have to mean- it- you can have me, angel, I’m yours. As fast or slow as you want.”

Aziraphale knew he ought to protest, ought to insist on talking about their feelings, on setting straight this misconception of Crowley’s. But his corporation seemed to have other ideas, grabbing at Crowley’s lapels and pinning him against the wall, desperate to be close. He tried, despite that - despite their sudden proximity and the effect it seemed to be having on them both - to do the right thing. To make himself clear.

“I _love_ you. I have for a long time. And I want you, and there’s nothing to stop us now. If you- if you still feel the same way.”

“I do- I’ve always-” Crowley seemed to be having difficulty breathing, never mind finishing a sentence. “And the glasses-?”

“Take them off,” Aziraphale growled. “Your eyes are among Her most precious creations, and I want to see-” 

But he couldn’t go on; all the wind rushed out of his sails as Crowley, with those sinfully dextrous fingers that Aziraphale wanted all over him, removed his sunglasses, folded them, and tucked them into a pocket. He would probably have survived, if only Crowley had tucked them into his _own_ pocket, but he hadn’t. He had smiled, and folded his sunglasses, and tucked them into _Aziraphale’s_ pocket. It was hard not to read into it, to see meanings that weren’t there. _Here is my shield, I’m giving it to you, I trust you._

“Here I am,” Crowley told him simply, and Aziraphale let out a mortifying noise that could only be described as a moan. Oh, _Her_. It had never been about the sunglasses at all, had it? “What… what do you-?”

Aziraphale pressed him even closer against the wall - turnabout was fair play - and kissed him, kissed away all the words and the clever remarks and the doubt and the self-loathing. He kissed him until Crowley, finally, could see clearly.

“You love me,” the demon whispered raggedly, as Aziraphale allowed him a breath, and the angel smiled.

“I do.” He hesitated. “Too fast?”

Crowley tried to relieve him of his jacket with such urgency that he knocked the sunglasses from his pocket, and Aziraphale had his answer.


End file.
